


The Next Day

by rimz08



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, You all know what kind of stuff I write....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rimz08/pseuds/rimz08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sequel to Birthday Boy. Modern AU, spies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I love reviews. Please let me know what you think! This is my first attempt to write some slightly explicit scenes. Hope they are ok.  
> I know my other story isn't finished, but it will be soon. This one just had to be written, and most of it is done already.

They must have drifted off to sleep on the sofa, because Constance wakes up with a stiff neck and her phone told her that it was the early hours of the morning. 

"Come on, let's move to bed. This is not comfortable for me, so it certainly isn't for you," she tells d'Artagnan, shaking his shoulder. He stirs at her touch and she helps him up and into the bedroom.

He's half asleep as she sits him on the edge of the bed and tugs his sweater and t-shirt over his head, leaving him bare-chested. She runs her finger tips over the bandage on his torso and she feels him shiver at her touch. His eyes are still closed, but he shifts backwards onto the bed, pulling her down onto his lap, her legs astride him. She eases his tracksuit bottoms off, leaving him in his boxers, before pulling off her own top. He runs his hands up and down her sides, tickling her with a feather light touch, before undoing the catch of her bra and removing it. She bends her head, kissing the hollow of his neck, and whispers in his ear, "Are you sure you are ready for this?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm not ready to stop," he whispers back, laughing, pulling her closer to him.

They make love gently, carefully, slowly. She tries not to lean on his chest or make sudden movements, but in the end she loses control, sitting on top of him, head thrown back with passion and relief, as she guides him inside of her. And afterwards, she collapses beside him, dragging the covers up over them both, and falls into a dreamless sleep in the crook of his arm.

The morning sun wakes her, many hours later, and she twists around to find him looking at her.

"I know daytime TV is terrible, but watching me sleep can't be much better," she mutters, sleepily.

He just smiles at her and plants a kiss on her forehead.

It's a few moments before he speaks. "Did you mean it, what you said last night?" he asks.

"Of course I did you idiot. I wasn't that drunk. And today I am working the late shift, so we have hours of virtual flat hunting ahead of us. But first, I need to shower," she tells him, kissing him one more time before leaving the warmth of the bed.

For the first time, she doesn't pull her clothes back on and go up to her own flat to shower, but instead, poking out her tongue, takes his towel and pads into the shower. Sticking her head back out, she calls to him, "You better have some decent conditioner down here mister, all my hair will be all tangles!", before disappearing again.

D'Artagnan lies back on the bed and listens to the sound of the shower, reliving the night before in his mind. He thinks how strange it is that what started out as the worst birthday of his life has become the beginning of a new start. He isn't foolish enough to think that he can shake of the feelings of grief and loneliness from the previous day, but he does feel a growing kernel of hope in his stomach.

Constance reappears wrapped in his towel, hair dripping, trying to tug his comb through her locks and heads to the kitchen. She returns a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea and toast on a tray.

"Come on then lazy bones, eat up. We have things to do," she instructs him.

"Yes ma'am," he answers, cheekily, ginning at her, pushing himself up and taking a long drink from the tea.

As he bites into the toast he notices her scrutinizing him closely.

"What? Are you worried about me getting crumbs in the bed? Because to remind you, this was your idea."

She shakes her head. "How are you feeling? Really?" she asks, "I think your breathing sounds a little labored."

"I'm fine! Out of doctor mode please. You can do that all you want tonight," he replies.

"Sorry," she says, looking down, "can't help it. I just hope you didn't make yourself ill last night. It was cold out and your lungs are already weak."

"Shh. Everything is okay," he tells her, stroking her cheek, "Except… this toast really needs some strawberry jam…."

"Fine," she snorts, "I'll go get it. Don't say I never do anything for you!"

 

Wearing one of his sweaters, she snuggles back into bed with another cup of tea and the laptop. They spend a while looking at flats, before boredom sets in and they look for a show to watch.

"No hospital dramas. They are always so inaccurate!" says Constance.

"And no spy shows, they remind me how un-glamorous the work really is," he replies.

"How about costume drama?" she suggests, "you did literature at university, you must like that kind of thing".

"That kind of depends. There is no way I am watching Downton Abbey. Good old Pride and Prejudice you might be in with a chance."

"I was thinking swashbuckling. I love that stuff. It is so sexy."

"Okay, duly noted, when I get this cast off my leg I will learn to fence," he chuckles.

 

He drifts off to sleep during the show, and she takes the opportunity to place a hand on his forehead, check his temperature, and listen to his breathing in the quiet. He feels a little warm to the touch, but she tries to push her worries aside, not wanting to drive him crazy with her mother hen act. Instead she goes up to her flat, gets some supplies and makes them lunch. She also grabs a set of clean scrubs and some other essentials.

She wakes him up to eat, and he apologizes profusely for falling asleep on her, like some old man. As much as she reassures him that it's fine, it's what his body needs, and the medications he is on make him drowsy, she sees the doubt in his eyes, the need to please, to be sure she won't think him weak and run away. And she wants so much to show him that she'll never think that, so she captures his mouth with hers to shut him up and then trails kisses all along his chest and stomach until she reaches his groin. When he bites back a moan of pleasure she begins to make her way back up again, before climbing on top of him and placing him inside of her, where she is wet and ready in expectation.

Afterwards, she helps him wash, which is still a bit difficult with the cast on his leg and bandages on his chest. She pulls on her scrubs and gathers her hair into a ponytail.

"I'm taking the spare key, is that ok? I'll be back late, or early, whichever way you look at it and I don't want to wake you," she asks, kissing him goodbye.

"No, you're taking your key, not the spare key," he tells her, and she feels her stomach flutter at their newfound intimacy.

"Be good. Don't do anything I wouldn't!" she instructs him.

"Uh huh," he nods, "I might just watch a hospital drama – does that count?"

She pokes out her tongue at him before leaving.

 

 

 D'Artagnan is contemplating how to drain the pot of boiling pasta over the sink without losing his balance when the doorbell rings. Aramis had texted him earlier telling him to get himself decent because they were coming over with the captain. He's made an effort to tidy up and prepare something to eat.

"Something smells good," comments Porthos as he enters.

"It's just pasta and sauce," he responds, self deprecating as ever, although he is pleased to see the look of approval in Athos' eyes, "although it won't be anything much if someone doesn't help me come and drain the bloody spaghetti. I can't quite figure out how to do it while staying upright," he continues into the kitchen and the others follow him to lend a hand.

"We got you a belated birthday present," Aramis informs him, "although since Porthos chose it I think it is more for him than you" He thrusts the package at d'Artagnan, who opens it to reveal a new video game. He smiles at the gesture.

"Hey, you told me what to buy!" Porthos cries, earning himself a prod in the ribs from Aramis.

"And I brought beer," adds Treville, who has been quiet until now, placing it on the table.

Aramis and Porthos quickly slink off to try out the new game, leaving Athos and Treville with d'Artanan to set the table. Treville puts his hand on his youngest recruit's shoulder.

"Pleased to see you up and about," he says, the closest he'll get to intimacy.

"Thanks sir. It's good to see you," D'Artagnan replies.

"Stop scaring him captain," chimes in Athos, "in a minute he'll start to worry that you care."

"Of course I….. ahh, the famous Athos humour…. Or not." Treville shakes his head and goes to join the others hard at work with the game.

"Seriously though," Athos asks quietly, "how are you?"

D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow at him, questioning this sudden show of affection from the quietest member of their group.

"Better. Not the best. But better. And that's good for now."

Athos nods, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Oi, did someone say something about food?" shouts Porthos.

D'Artagnan just rolls his eyes, feeling pleased to be surrounded by his friends, his makeshift family.

 

"Not bad for a one-legged cook," comments Porthos, shoveling pasta into his mouth.

"Where are your table manners?" asks Aramis, poking at him.

"I'm 'ungry!" he complains, his mouth full of food, "It's been a long day."

"On that I will agree," comments Athos, "which is why this is in order," he says, raising his beer.

"I don't know, I think we need something stronger to celebrate." Says Treville.

"Celebrate what?" asks d'Artagnan.

"We pulled in a guy called Gallagher, Russian agent," Aramis tells him.

"He sounds Irish, not Russian," d'Artagnan objects.

"Well, that is kind of the point," Athos notes, drily. At which d'Artagnan just pouts.

"Anyway, we are pretty sure he has info on a mole, he's high up in the food chain, so hopefully we'll finally get to the bottom of all this mess," Treville tells him.

"There's scotch in the cupboard," says d'Artagnan, "and probably some Baileys for Aramis."

"Hey! Just because I happen to like alcopops does not mean I am a complete girl," he complains, taking a long, manly, swig of beer, which causes him to splutter and cough. The others burst into laughter.

 

 

 

Richelieu is pacing angrily when she arrives, all perfect makeup and high heels, leather jacket and straight black skirt. She sits herself on the park bench and he joins her soon after.

"How much does he know?" he cuts straight to the point.

"Enough," she answers, quietly.

"Damn," he exclaims, "I told you to be careful."

"I was," she purrs, "Gallagher wasn't."

"We can't let him talk. We need to either get him back or shut him up."

"I may have a plan…." She says, placing her hand on his arm.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry I messed up. This is a multi chapter work, not a one shot. Will post the next chapter tomorrow hopefully


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 for real this time!

She is waiting in the car for him at Heathrow. Jack slides in beside her and passes the envelope to her from the pocket of his suit jacket. She smiles at him, that enchanting, bewitching smile.

"The boss will be very pleased," she tells him, running a finger down his cheek, "Well done."

He's incredibly turned on, and he knows that is what she wants, as he is also aware that she won't let it go any further. She likes to tease, and then to remind him that she is way out of his league.

She shakes her dark curls as she turns her attention to the steering wheel and begins to pull out.

"Now, I have something to show you." She tells him.

 

"Do you feel up to going out for lunch?" asks Constance.  She has woken up in the late morning, famished, and found nothing to entice her in either of their flats. "The Italian on the High Street does good lunch deals."

"Sure," he answers, ignoring the slight tightness in his chest, putting it down to the healing stitches, and the fuzziness in his head, which must be the painkillers.

It's a five minute walk away from the flat but by the time they get there d'Artagnan is exhausted. Constance looks concerned.

"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea."

"No, it's fine, just give me a couple of minutes. It's good to get out. I am kind of fed up of my place. And the physio said I need to rebuild lung capacity."

"Ooh, look at that, learning the medical talk. Soon we'll be able to have a proper conversation!" teases Constance.

"Mock as you please…. It may work against you later," he laughs.

She reaches over the table and takes his hand in hers, running her thumb over his palm, caressing it.

"Jack is due back tomorrow," she tells him, changing the tone. "I'll tell him straight away."

"Do you want me to be there?" he offers.

"No, I need to do this on my own. He needs to understand that it isn't you. This has been a long time coming. Much more scary, is going to be telling my mother!"

"Well, if she's anything like you, she must be a pretty intimidating lady," he chuckles.

"You have no idea… just wait and see."

 

 

She drives him home, passing through the High Street on the way, slowing down by the little Italian place that Constance has been badgering him to take her to for ages. As they stop at the lights, he spots the tell-tale sign of his wife's hair in the window of the restaurant, and sees her holding hands with d'Artagnan, the bloody idiot who rents out the basement flat.

He clutches his hands into fists, when he sees Constance stroke the other man's cheek.

The woman beside him places a hand on his, calming. She smiles at him, "Don't worry, I can help," she offers.

 

 

Back home, Constance ushers d'Artagnan into bed before going upstairs to get some supplies. She can feel that he is feverish and exhausted.

"'m sorry," he is mumbling again, when she returns.

"Enough sorry," she tells him, placing the stethoscope in her ears and pulling up his t-shirt, "now, deep breath please."

He does as he is told, finding it difficult to take in the breath and coughing as he lets it out.

"Your little Buffy stunt has gone and made you ill," she tells him, "and I don't suppose I've helped by dragging you out. Again."

"Wasn't a Buffy stunt," he protests, in between wheezes, "would've needed wooden crutches for that," and she can't help but laugh, although she stops when his coughing gets worse.

"You need a chest x-ray," she informs him.

He turns to her with puppy dog eyes. "Please, no more hospital," he entreats.

"You know what, fine, it's not severe yet, I might be able to get it under control here," she rifles through the plastic box of medicines she keeps at home, looking for antibiotics. "Take these for now, and I'll write a prescription for something stronger at work and send it over with the boys. I might have Aramis give you some fluids as well. And here's some paracetamol for the temperature. If you get any worse, I will take you to hospital though. Clear?"

"Crystal," he replies, lying back against the pillows and taking the pills she gives him.

"Now rest. I'm going to get changed and go to work. I'm not going to call you, because I don't want to wake you up, so you text me, ok?"

"Yes mum," he answers, his eyes already drooping.

"Kinky," she laughs as she leaves.

 

 

He texts her a few hours into her shift, asking whether Call the Midwife counts as a hospital drama. She can't help but smile to herself, replying that she'll make him watch period spy movies as soon as she gets home. He sends her back a smiling face.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos stop by on their way home from work, and she piles them up with supplies and instructions. She hands them a spare key so they can let themselves in.

"Aramis, if he isn't drinking use the fluids, ok?"

"Stop fussing, he knows what he's doing," says Porthos, "before we had you he was in charge of all medical issues."

Before we had you, she kind of likes that.

The boys look exhausted. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"A trying day," Athos tells her.

"I could tell you where I hide my secret chocolate stash if that would help," she offers.

 

 

A text message from Aramis a few hours later tells her that they have eaten (Chinese takeaway), he has taken his pills like a good boy, they have checked his temperature, and tucked him in with a bedtime story. He sends her a Whatsapp image of d'Artagnan asleep, with one of her teddy bears tucked under his arm. She knows they will be using this for nefarious purposes one day, but can't help but laugh.

By the end of her shift she is both exhausted and itching to get home to check on him and to hold him in her arms. She hasn't felt this desire to leave work for a long time, hasn't had something waiting for her at home. She finishes up her last few patients and then goes to change her clothes.

Coming out of the staff changing rooms, she is shocked to find her husband waiting for her, a big bunch of flowers in his hand.

"Surprise!" he exclaims. "I made the deal, and I got back early and wanted to surprise you." He leans in to kiss her, thrusting the flowers at her, like he doesn't quite know what to do with them.

"Great," she says, unenthusiastically, "that's great news."

"Shall we got somewhere, get a drink?"

"At 3am?"

"Sure," he says, "places are open."

"I'm exhausted," she protests.

"Come on, it'll be fun," he says, linking his arm in his and leading her out of the hospital onto the streets of central London.

 

In a pretty seedy bar, she nurses a coke, while he has a beer, trying to fight her exhaustion.

"Look Jack, we need to talk," she tells him.

"Yes, my love, I know. Now let me go first. It has been difficult lately, I admit. I have been so busy working. But I closed this deal and we're made now. We can get that big house you've always wanted, with a garden. We can settle down. You don't have to work so much."

"I've never wanted a big house, that's your dream. And I love my work."

"We can talk about IVF again, or adoption, I know you want a child."

"Now you want to talk about that?" she is incredulous.

"I don't want to lose you, Constance, I love you." He tells her. For a moment she feels guilty and her resolve weakens.

"I'm sorry Jack, but it's too late. It's gone too far. I don't think we have a future together anymore," she tells him.

"It's that stupid boy isn't it? Give him up, forget about him, we'll move on, start afresh." He pleads.

"It's not him, it's us. We haven't been happy for a long time."

"So you go and shag the lodger?"

"Like you haven't slept with each one of your secretaries and anyone else who will spread her legs for you," she retorts.

"I wouldn't have to if you weren't always working!"

"Right, blame me and my work. You are not the man I fell in love with. You always knew I wanted to be a doctor, since high school. And I thought you had dreams as well. We were going to do things, good things, but all you seem to care about is money. What happened to you?"

"I grew up, Constance, I saw the world for what it is. Maybe you should too," his words are meant to be cutting, but they don't hurt.

"We've both changed, Jack, it's time we admitted it and moved on. We'll both be happier this way."

"You're all I've ever wanted, Constance," he says softly, raising a hand to her cheek, "you're mine and always will be."

"This isn't 17th century France you know! I don't belong to anyone. All you want is a trophy wife to host dinner parties. It was nice for you, at first, to show off about your wife the doctor, but now it's a problem, it's annoying, that my schedule doesn't always fit with cocktail parties and lunches. You don't want me, you want the idea of me," she says, standing up, "Now I'm going home. I'll be staying in the basement flat until we can figure something out about the property."

"Constance –" he calls to her.

She turns and looks back. More softly now, she tells him, "I'm sorry Jack, I never wanted to hurt you, and I will always care for you, but this is for the best." She knows it sounds like a Hallmark card, but it's the truth. He was her first love, until d'Artagnan she had only ever been with him.

"Don't be so quick to believe that. I have friends in high places now," he replies, his eyes hardening, revealing the new Jack, the one she really doesn't like, "I can make things difficult for you."

And now she has no qualms about turning on her heel and walking out of the bar, the flowers lying discarded on a chair. She is gone before he takes his phone from his pocket and checks his messages. The last one received, just ten minutes earlier, tells him "It's done".

 

Sighing heavily, Constance walks up the path way to the basement flat, rifling through her bag for the key. She is already at the door when she finds it and when she raises her head, ready to put it into the lock, she is shocked to see the door off its hinges, hanging open. Fear rises in her throat as she dashes into the flat, running straight for the bedroom. She finds the room empty, the bed a mess of tangled sheets, with blood marks on them and the pillows. She's panicking so much by this point that she can't find her phone and tips the entire contents of her bag onto the floor, searching for it wildly.

Her fingers are shaking as she dials Athos' number, and by the time a sleepy voice answers she can barely breathe.

"Constance? Constance?" hearing her distress he is immediately awake, alert, "Constance, calm down and tell me what's happened," he tells her, already up and out of bed, pulling on his trousers, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.

"He's…gone…." She gulps out.

"What do you mean gone? Done a runner again?" he asks.

"No!" she cries out, "Door's off the hinges, blood on the bed, someone's been here!"

"Ok, I'm on my way. Just…just…." What can he say to her, to stay calm? It won't help, so he skips the stupid comments, "don't touch anything. I'll be there as soon as I can."

 

It's actually Porthos who lives closest, and so gets there first, taking Constance into his strong arms for a few moments before he starts looking around, gloves on his hands as he pokes, so as not to disturb any evidence.

Aramis is next, disheveled in yesterday's clothes, with a lipstick mark on the collar of his shirt, hair in disarray. He leads Constance to the kitchen and puts the kettle on to make them all a cup of tea (or coffee in his case). Athos' arrival is followed swiftly by Treville. Aramis sits at the kitchen table with Constance, holding her hand, while the others talk in hushed tones from the bedroom.

They find no fingerprints, no clues, so it looks professional. "What can anyone want with him?" asks Porthos, "he's still a trainee and he hasn't clocked up so many enemies."

Treville shakes his head in despair, "Maybe it has nothing to do with the office? Something in his past?"

"Come on, sir, we did all the background checks and nothing showed up," replies Athos, "he's a kid with a literature degree who didn't even smoke pot at university."

Treville can't help but agree. But that doesn't do anything for their present situation.

The silence is broken by the beep of Treville's phone, signaling an email. He takes it out and looks at it. "No CCTV footage for this road. One on the High Street has a black van turning right from the street onto the main road at 2 am, but we have no evidence that there is anything suspicious about it. The techies are checking it out anyway with DVLA."

The phone then beeps again and Treville opens the new message.

He holds the phone out so the others can see. The email is from an anonymous address, probably making it untraceable. When he clicks on it, a picture opens up, of an unconscious d'Artagnan lying on a concrete floor. There are no telling markers that can indicate where he is. The text of the email includes one word: Gallagher.

"Well," says Treville, "now we know. I am going to have to go to the PM and probably Richelieu. They want an exchange," before promptly turning and leaving.

"We don't do exchanges," says Porthos, worriedly.

"There have been exceptions," Athos notes.

"What do we tell Constance?" Porthos asks his friend.

"As little as is humanly possible." Athos replies, shaking his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! Promise to update soon. Please review....


	4. Three

 

They have nothing to do but sit and wait for word from Treville. The silence around the table is unbearable. Aramis goes to turn on the television for background noise. Empty cups with soggy tea bags sit alongside the wrappers of almost a dozen chocolate bars.

The bang to the table shocks them all, as Constance stands up suddenly.

"I think Jack had something to do with this," she shouts, making for the door.

"Constance, calm down, you are grasping at straws. How could your husband be involved in this? He's away on business." Aramis tries to soothe her.

"No, he came back early. He came to meet me after work, which he hasn't done since my first year of work, with a bunch of flowers. He said he had closed a big deal. And then he told me to be careful because he has friends in high places."

Athos cocks an eyebrow. "I may not like the man, but I find it hard to imagine that he is involved in something like this. He doesn't exactly strike me as the type to…well frankly to be brave enough."

"I don't know him at all anymore. He is ruthless, cold, and he found out about me and d'Artagnan, I don't even know how," she replies.

"Ok, maybe we should go talk to him, man to man," suggest Porthos. Athos nods in assent, it can't hurt, after all, and will give them something to do.

"Go, I'll stay here," Aramis offers, guiding Constance to the sofa to join him in front of the TV, an arm draped around her shoulders.

 

 

He may have felt brave earlier, but confronted by Athos and Porthos before the sun has even come up, Jack doesn't feel very sure of himself at all.

"Sit!" commands Athos, pushing him into a chair.

Porthos stands menacingly behind his friend, glaring at Jack, and Jack gulps, trying desperately not to wet himself in fear. He's met these men that his wife speaks about a number of times, and he isn't sure exactly who they are, because she keeps her secrets these days, but he knows that they are pretty damn strong and scary. And he can see the bulge of a gun under both their shirts.

"I'm going to ask you this once, and you are going to tell me the truth," Athos says very clearly, enunciating every syllable, so there will be no misunderstanding. "Do you know anything about d'Artagnan disappearing from his flat tonight?"

Jack gulps again, more loudly this time, and his eyes flit between the two of them.

Porthos moves his hand to hover over his gun and after a few seconds of silence, Jack nods his head, once.

Athos pulls back his right arm, ready to punch, but Porthos stays his hand.

"No point knocking him out, we need answers," he points out.

"How do you contact them?" Athos growls.

"I don't. She always contacts me," Jack stutters his reply.

"Always? How long?" Porthos asks.

"She? Who is she?" Athos grinds out at the same time.

"A month or so ago. A woman comes to me, a beautiful woman, dark curly hair, perfect in every way."

Athos' look darkens, not unnoticed by Porthos, who places a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder.

"And you have no way of contacting them at all? I find that hard to believe," Athos snarls.

"Okay, okay," says Jack, raising his hands. If only they were all this easy to question, Porthos thinks to himself, "there's a drop point, if I ever need to contact them. I leave a flower on a certain grave, then I get a message telling me where to go, a few hours later."

"Good, that's the way. Now get ready, you'll be needing to contact them tonight." Athos tells him.

 

 

The floor is cold and hard and he is shivering uncontrollably, dressed only in boxers and t-shirt, as he had gone to bed. His head throbs horribly and he knows that some, if not all, of the stitches in his chest have ripped. He should probably have gone along quietly, conserved his energy, but he is happy that he at least gave one of his kidnappers a black eye and a split lip. He puts his head back against the grey wall and closes his eyes. They'll find him, of course they will.

When his captors come in, they are talking Russian, and have no idea that he can understand them, that one of the things that made Treville take him on was his linguistic abilities and training. He hopes to use to his advantage, although they don't seem to be talking about anything more important than which one of them is going to buy more vodka and what kind it should be.

It's when she comes in that he realizes that he is in real trouble. The woman who tried to set him up for murder when he first arrived in London, the beautiful seductress; if she's involved, it can't be good, he muses. This woman is nothing but trouble. And she wasn't exactly happy with him the last time they met. He had just told her to get lost, after all.

She crouches down next to him.

"I have missed you, my sweet," she says, stroking his chin with a perfectly manicured finger. He flinches at her touch. "Oh, don't be like that. I thought we had something good together."

"You had a good way of getting away with murder you mean," he snorts.

"It wasn't just that, not with you, it's such a shame you chose her over me," she shakes her head.

"Yes, a difficult choice, murderer or a wonderful talented, caring woman. Can't think how I made that decision?" His remark earns his a slap and his head hits the wall painfully.

"Watch your tongue, whelp!" she orders him.

Her phone beeps then, and she takes it out, looking at it in annoyance. She quickly texts a reply then turns to the guards and speaks with them in Russian. He hears mention of the name Gallagher and it sounds familiar, he just can't figure out why right now. She sounds like a native speaker, d'Artagnan thinks. She gives one of them instructions to leave and go to meet a man and bring him back here. She shows him a picture of the man on her phone, but from his position, d'Artagnan can't see it. After the man has left, she crouches down in front of him again.

"Any chance of a blanket? It's a bit nippy in here?" he asks, giving her a cheeky grin.

"I'm sure I'll find a way to warm you up, my sweet," she replies, tracing a finger down his chest.

 

 

Jack is pacing the clearing nervously, the morning sun filtering between the trees. He knows that Athos and Porthos are not far away, but that doesn't reassure him that he will get out of this alive.

A jogger runs past him, before circling and returning to him.

"Walk with me," the man says, in heavily accented English.

"Who are you? I asked to see her!" Jack says.

"She is busy. You see me." The man tells him.

"I need to talk to her…it's important." Jack pleads.

"You tell me, I tell her. Now talk. Not have much time," the man is getting angry, glancing around suspiciously.

"The police came round, asking me questions, I'm scared," he says in response, as they have agreed

"And what you tell them?"

"Nothing, of course, but they didn't believe me, I could see it. I need to get away for a few days. I need help."

"Yes, you need lot of help," says the man, before taking out his gun and using it to knock Jack over the back of his head. He swings his limp body over his shoulder before running off into the trees, towards the waiting car.

 

"The PM didn't give us the go ahead for the exchange. Apparently Richelieu was all for it, but the PM wasn't having any of it. If we'd have gotten anything out of Gallagher it might be different, but the PM wants to know who the mole is. As far as he's concerned, d'Artagnan is collateral damage. So it's up to us," Athos tells Porthos as the other man drives the car, following a flashing GPS point on the electronic map.

The Russian had found the first tracker in Jack's coat pocket, and the second one in the lining. After a quick frisk of the rest of him, he'd then thrown him in the back of the car, not looking for the third, which they had made Jack swallow. Porthos smiles remembering the look on Jack's face, and Athos' comment of "Don't worry, we'll give you a laxative afterwards".

Aramis has joined them and is in the back of the car, Constance left in a fitful sleep on the sofa at the flat. They didn't want to leave her, but they also need to move fast and efficiently. They don't want to call in anyone else, take any risks at the information leaking, and they really only trust each other, it's why the others call them the three musketeers, after all.

The Russian turns into an industrial estate which is largely abandoned and Athos parks their vehicle outside. They go the rest of the way on foot. It doesn't take long to find the car, next to a black van, outside an old, disused factory. They take up positions from cover across the way, watching the place.

Treville is setting up a fake deal for this evening. If they can break d'Artagnan out before then, all well and good. If not, they need to spend the next few hours figuring out how many people and weapons the other side have, in order to bring them down.

 

D'Artagnan comes back to consciousness to the sounds of thumping and banging. When he hadn't been quite as co-operative as she might have liked, the remaining thug had been ordered to give him a roughing up. He was actually grateful for that alternative in a way. He didn't fancy the idea of explaining the other option to Constance.

Through blurry eyes he sees a person thrown down on the floor next to him, collapsed and unconscious. Inching across the floor for a closer look, he is shocked to discover the identity of his fellow captive.

"Jack?" he says, shaking the other man's shoulder. When he begins to rouse, looking around in fear with wild eyes, d'Artagnan's training kicks in. "Hey, it's gonna be ok. We'll get out of here," he whispers.

Jack looks at him, wide-eyed, and when understanding comes he flinches away, retreating from d'Artagnan's touch. He looks around the room until he sees the guards.

"Oy! You! I shouldn't be here. What are you playing at? I asked to see her!"

D'Artagnan is confused. "Who? Who are you looking for?" He's suddenly concerned that Constance is involved somehow. Have they also taken her?

A guard answers in broken English. "She come in a minute. Now shut up!"

D'Artagnan whispers to Jack, "What is going on? Is Constance alright? Why are you here?"

"I said shut up!" the guard shouts, looking menacing. Jack avoids his gaze.

And suddenly he understands who Jack wants to see. He is involved with her.

"I thought you were a bloody accountant! What are you doing working with Russian spies?" he hisses at the other man.

"And what do you do, that Russian spies want to kidnap you? And who the crap are those friends of yours?" Jack counters.

"Enough!" the guard approaches, pulling back his arm, ready to punch.

"Oh no, Dmitri, let the boys be," says a sickly sweet voice behind him. "Jack, so kind of you to join us."

Jack seems almost mesmerized by her presence and swallows hard.

"I said not to contact me unless it was absolutely necessary, did you forget that?" she asks, like she is talking to a child.

Jack shakes his head. "Two men, his friends," he inclines his head towards d'Artagnan, "they made me talk. I…" he hands his head.

"Which friends?" she asks, interested suddenly.

"I don't know remember their names, the big one and the grumpy one." D'Artagnan can't help but laugh, it must be Porthos and Athos then.

She looks worried by that. She goes over to the guards and d'Artagnan strains to listen to their conversation. She is clearly concerned that Athos and Porthos are on to her, which means she knows them, or knows of them. Suddenly he remembers who Gallagher is. They want to exchange him for the Russian agent MI5 is holding. Although he finds it hard to believe that Treville will agree to such a deal, or that he'll come out of it alive, after seeing his captors' faces.

"Hey! I'm on your side. What's going on here?" Jack calls to them, worried by their whispering. When they continue to ignore him, he burst out "They made me swallow a tracker!"

D'Artagnan wants to smack the man. He's practically signed their death warrants.

She turns, very slowly, and looks at the two men on the floor, licking her lips as she thinks. Her hand reaches to her gun, and d'Artagnan knows what she is going to do.

"Oh, Jack. I really thought we could make something of you," she mutters, shaking her head as she approaches, "but it seems you are becoming such a liability."

D'Artagnan is angry at Jack for so many things, but at the same time, he is training for these kind of situations, he is meant to protect civilians. So when as she is about to fire the gun he jumps on the other man, pushing him down. The bullet skims his shoulder, tearing the flesh and bouncing off the bone before entering the wall, and it's pure agony, causing him almost to black out.

There's shouting in Russian, and through the fog in his head he realizes how much they need him alive for their plan, so he makes his hold on Jack even tighter, making it clear that they'll have to go through him first.

Eventually, they seem to tire of it. "Fine, have it your way. We'll just kill him later then," she spits at them, before turning on her heel to leave.

And all Jack can think is that maybe, just maybe, Constance is right about this guy.

 

An initial survey of the factory has shown it to be large and well guarded, too much for the three of them to take on. Athos is reflecting on how best to proceed, when an elbow to his ribs rouses him from his reverie. As he looks up he sees a woman exiting the side door of the factory from between the boards that have been used to seal it, and he involuntarily gasps. Aramis looks at him, asking whether to shoot, and he shakes his head, as much as he would like to nod, to have her dead once and for all. But he knows that they need to follow the plan and a gunshot now could ruin everything. Plus he really wants to know what the hell she is doing back in his town, his country. He thought he had sent her into exile in mother Russia.

She climbs into the car gracefully and drives off. Aramis leans in to him and asks in a whisper, "Is that…"

"Yes. We'll talk about it later. I can't think about it now."

Knowing she is involved changes everything. Something much bigger is at stake than one low ranking Russian agent. And if they want to find out what, they have to let things take their course.

An hour before the meet is due, Aramis and Porthos leave to take up positions at the arranged point. Athos hasn't moved, is hoping, or not hoping (he isn't sure) that she'll come back, but she doesn't. He watches as night draws in, and men exit the factory dragging two forms, hands bound behind their backs, and place them in the back of the van. Athos makes his way back to the car and is ready to follow the tracker. There only appear to be four men, which he tells the others over the phone, although certainly others will be waiting at the meeting point.

For Athos every minute of the drive feels like an eternity. At least he knows that d'Artagnan is alive, although he cannot believe that it is their intention to let him out of it that way. He sees her face in his mind's eye as he sits at a red light, once loving, now cruel and mocking. What is her endgame?

From afar, Athos watches Treville waiting with a decoy, flanked by other agents at an abandoned lot down by the river. It's always by the river, Athos contemplates, so cliché. The decoy's head is covered; Aramis and Porthos are hidden away behind shipping containers, as Athos believes are a range of expert snipers from both sides.

They let the Russians, faces covered, exit the van and pull the two men out of the back. Two have guns stuck into the backs of their hostages, pushing them forward. Aramis winces as he watches d'Artagnan stumble unsteadily on his broken leg when he's prodded in the back. But his pride won't let him give up and he walks on. Treville urges his own decoy forward. The two other Russians stand by the van.

And then it happens. He sees a glint, a quick flash of something shiny, on the river side of the lot between two containers. It's brief and gone before anyone else saw it, but he knows what it is. It's meant for him. The glimmer of a torch on a beautiful diamond that was his mother's.

Athos skirts around the periphery of the lot until he reaches the river side. A cold wind is blowing in from the water, bringing with it smells none to healthy. He takes out his gun, holds it ready, and approaches her from behind. She lets out a tiny gasp as she feels it in the small of her back, although it is more pleasure than surprise.

"Hello Anne," he whispers, "too cold in Moscow for you that you needed to come back to Blighty?"

She pushes against the gun and swivels around to stare him in the face, as if she knows he could never really pull that trigger.

"I have some unfinished business to take care of, darling." He flinches at the word. "Now be a good boy and let me watch what happens. We can talk afterwards."

She starts to turn back but he grabs her arm, stopping her movement, and digs the gun into her ribs.

"Oh, you have become more masterful. I like that in a man," she smiles, although he can see that her eyes are showing just a little worry.

"What do you want? Why are you here? I told you, if you ever came back I would kill you."

"And I don't believe you, dear. As I said, I have some matters to take care of. My employer needed something done, and I am the best, as well you know." She traces a finger down his cheek. He swats away her hand.

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of gunfire. She moves so fast that it takes him by surprise, kneeing him in the groin and thrusting a knife into his abdomen. As he sinks to the floor, she whispers in his ear, "I'm so sorry," before running off into the night. He shoots off a whole gun at her receding form, and he thinks one might have hit her shoulder, but isn't at all sure.

The knife wound is not bad. It has missed anything important. The only thing he can think about now is getting to the others and finding out what happened. A hand pressed to his stomach, he limps over to where the sound of shooting originated.

 

 

As d'Artagnan inches his way forward painfully, a look from Treville tells him what is going to happen. He stumbles, purposefully, falling onto Jack, taking the other man down with him. At that exact moment, with perfect shots to the heads, Aramis and Porthos take out the two men forcing the hostages forward. A gun battle ensues over the two men's heads, as they plaster themselves to the ground.

D'Artagnan doesn't register that it's over until he feels a hand on his shoulder. Unfortunately, it's the one that caught the bullet earlier, and he can't stop himself from crying out in pain. And then hands are gently easing him up, and people are talking to him and covering him in coats.

"He's bloody hypothermic. Where's that damn ambulance?" he hears Aramis saying.

And it's only now that he registers quite how cold he is and that his teeth are chattering. Then he feels arms around, strong arms, warm, holding him tight, hands rubbing his bare arms to try and warm him up. And he knows from the smell that it's Porthos, and he sinks into the embrace.

A few moments later Athos is rushing to d'Artagnan, pushing the others away to get to him. He drops down to the floor beside his young friend, breathing heavily. D'Artagnan opens his eyes to look at him, and the sharp intake of breath alerts the others that something is wrong.

"Athos? What happened?" Aramis is asking, crouching down and looking at the blood seeping through his fingers. "Let me look."

"It's nothing. I'm fine. How is he?"

"F—f—fine," d'Artagnan retorts through his chattering teeth. Two can play at this game.

Aramis is inspecting Athos' stomach, undeterred, and then calling for bandages, cloth, anything to stop the bleeding. "Who did this?" he asks, but Athos' shake is the head is enough to tell him that they will talk about it later. Once he has something pressed down tight on the wound he turns back to d'Artagnan, only to see his eyes closing.

"Hey, no sleeping. That's quite a head wound," he instructs him, slapping his cheek lightly.

"You don't do anything by halves, do you kid?" asks Athos, reaching out to ruffle his hair, in a rare show of affection.

"Who you calling kid?" asks d'Artagnan, but trying to speak sparks off a coughing fit. From afar they hear sirens. "Here's your ride," says Porthos, "just a few more minutes," not sure if he is trying to calm himself or the others. D'Artagnan, eyes bright, takes a heaving breath and tries to control the coughing.

They've all forgotten about Jack, behind them on the ground, hands over his head. He hasn't moved. Now he raises his head and looks around, "Is it over yet?" he asks.

"Oh, this bit is over, but we are certainly not done with you," Athos informs him, grimly.


	5. Tying up loose ends

After the ambulance arrives, with the adrenalin rush receding, everything becomes a blur, a mixture of sensations. As he's moved onto the stretcher someone puts a hand on his shoulder in comfort and he screams out in agony, as hot white pain lances through him. He hears someone apologizing, he's not sure who, and he's mumbling that it's ok but then there's a rush of air on his face from an oxygen mask and the words are jumbled and nonsense. He feels a prick as an IV is started and drifts in and out of consciousness, every bump in the road causing him pain, hearing some of the words being spoken around him but not really understanding them. He's still shivering with cold, and his chest feels unbearably tight. But there's a hand in his, warm and strong, all the time.

 

Constance is waiting for the ambulance outside the hospital, rubbing her hands together in the cold, babbling away non-stop to the doctor next to her, trying to remember every detail of d'Artagnan's medical history. Eventually Dr. Macintosh rounds on her, places his hands on her shoulders and looks her squarely in the face. "How long have we worked together?" he asks her. She looks down at her feet. "Sorry," she tells him, "it's just…nerves."

"I understand, completely. But you have to trust me and take a step back, ok?"

She nods. Constance has never been good at taking steps back.

And then she hears the sirens and before she knows it relief is bubbling up inside her when she sees him, covered in blankets, deathly pale, oxygen mask over his face, gripping onto Athos' hand. Then Athos moves and lets her take over, and she feels his frozen fingers and knows he's real and alive. He cracks open his eyes and sees her, tries to take his hand out of hers to push the mask off his face, but she won't let him.

"Shh," she hushes, "I'm here. Everything's going to be fine," walking alongside him.

But before she knows it gentle hands are prying her away and she's telling him she'll see him soon and all she wants is to crumple into a heap on the ground as the doors close between them, a nurse murmuring platitudes to her.

It's Athos that pulls her out of her trance, a hand on her shoulder, and she grabs onto him, pulling him into an embrace, thanking him for bringing d'Artagnan back in more or less one piece. When the man recoils with a hiss of pain she notices the blood on his t-shirt.

"Shit! You’re hurt!" she cries.

"It's just a scratch," he tries to calm her. "I've had worse paper cuts."

"Of course you have, and I've sewed them up. Come on, let's find someone to see to you."

She looks for a nurse, but it being a typical evening in an inundated London hospital, together with the casualties from the "incident" pouring in, a minor stab wound is not high on anyone's list of priorities. In the end, Constance decides to deal with it herself. She just needs to stop her hands shaking first.

So she finds a free bed, sits Athos down and orders him to strip. He moans and protests, but she insists, pushing him back onto the bed and pulling gloves onto her hands.

He winces when she prods around at the wound. "It's missed all the important bits," she tells him reassuringly, "in fact, it looks like whoever did this has a pretty bad aim."

"No, her aim was perfect I think," he muses.

"Her?" she asks, a little surprised.

"My wife," he says, looking down at his hands.

It takes a lot to shock Constance, but for the first time in ages she is totally floored.

"You're…married?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" he asks, something twinkling in eyes.

"Well…you're just…a man of few words," she tries to backtrack.

"And you need a lot of words to be married?"

"Communication is kind of important," she offers.

"As you yourself should know."

"Touché," she concedes. "So..um…you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly," he replies.

"Okay then," she muses, and gets back to the job at hand.

After a few moments of quiet, Athos speaks very softly. "She worked for MI6. But she was a Russian mole. She killed my brother when he found out. And then she ran away to Russia, or I thought she did. But it appears that she is back in London, and was involved in this whole affair."

Constance considers for a moment. "Thank you," she says, at last.

"For what?" Athos asks, puzzled.

"For trusting me."

 

"There you are!" an exasperated Aramis says, pulling back the curtain on them, "we’ve been looking for you everywhere."

"Sorry, I got commandeered by the good doctor. She wanted to practice her needlework. How's the cleanup going?"

"Not bad. Treville will want to talk to you, but probably in the morning. He said you should get some rest." Athos snorts and Aramis shakes his head. "I told him that wouldn't be likely. We had a few minor injuries, all being treated. Nothing too serious. Some of their men are alive but severely wounded. We'll have to wait and see whether they survive and can tell us anything. Although it's doubtful, they look like hired mercenaries."

"Yes, the person pulling the strings was watching from a distance," Athos notes, grimly, "and is long gone by now I hope."

Aramis raises an eyebrow at that.

"It's fine. She knows." Athos sighs.

"Oh, speaking of troublesome spouses, Constance, you might want to see your idiot husband! He's down in cubicle 6," Aramis tells her.

"What?" Constance turns to him. "Jack is here? Would someone like to tell me what is going on?"

"I hope you have someone guarding him," Athos warns his friend.

"Of course we do! We're not completely incapable of functioning without you telling us what to do. Porthos is with him."

"How did he draw the short straw?" Athos asks.

"He lost at scissors, paper, stone," Aramis responds, with a shrug of his shoulders, "seemed as good a way as any to solve the problem."

"Would someone please tell me what is going on!" cries Constance.

"Certainly, although I don't think you are going to like it."

 

Jack now knows that the big one is called Porthos and he is mildly less scared of him having been held captive by much scarier Russian guys. He regards Porthos from n the bed and muses over what he had seen earlier that night. Even more than the gun battle, the deaths, what affected him was the relationship between those four men. He hasn't had that kind of friendship since high school. And for the most part he lost touch with his best mates, emailing once in a while and meeting up at major life changing events like weddings and funerals.  What he saw tonight, that's a bond he can only dream of having. How the others worked in perfect synchrony, rushed to d'Artagnan, the look on Porthos' face when what was supposed to be a comforting hand on the shoulder caused a shriek of pain and his utter horror at the blood on his fingers. No, Jack isn't really scared of these guys anymore. He's in total awe of them.

However, he is scared of Constance. And when she appears, he understands what Shakespeare was referring to when he compared a woman's anger to hell's fury. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are wild and she looks like she would actually kill him, given half the chance. The furies can't have looked much worse.

"I think you've really done it now," comments Porthos.

"That may well be the understatement of the year," Jack mutters.

She begins by calling him a list of names so imaginative that even Porthos is impressed. When she's done, and a nurse has come in and asked her to keep it down, she plops herself into the plastic chair by his bed and looks at Jack.

"How could you?" she asks, quietly.

"I just wanted to make things right for you, for us…" he answers, pleadingly.

"With which bit? Getting involved with Russian spies or having d'Artagnan kidnapped? The man I married would never have done those things. I don't know who you are anymore." Tears are pouring down her face. Jack reaches over and takes her hand. She doesn't resist.

"I'm not sure I do either," he tells her.

 

It feels like forever until they get any news. Although Constance tries to get updates a number of times, she's fobbed off, told that they're doing x-rays and a CT. She can't fight with that, it's what she'd tell a patient's loved ones too. But as a scientist she needs hard facts. The unknown for her is the ultimate enemy.

Eventually, Dr. Macintosh comes to find her, next to Athos' bed, having stopped him from getting up for the twentieth time.

"His temperature is going up slowly. The CT shows only slight swelling in the head. The chest x-rays are pretty bad though. We've started antibiotics and taken cultures. We just have to wait and see how he responds to them. His shoulder is going to need surgery but we can't do that until we get the pneumonia under control." She nods. These facts she understands. "You can go up to intensive care and sit with him."

Constance circumvents the strict rules of intensive care using her friends and connections to make sure that she can sit by his side all night, along with Aramis, who gets put on protection detail. Only after she threatens to tie him up will Athos agree to stay in bed until morning.

It is probably one of the worst nights of her life, watching him feverish and fighting for breath. She has to agree when they suggest sedating him and insert a chest tube, although her medical knowledge is at war with her fear of seeing him sedated and lifeless.

She spends the next hours watching antibiotics drip through an IV into him, listening to the whirring and beeping of machinery, the minutes ticking by impossibly slowly. She badgers the doctors to change the antibiotics, sure they aren't working, and they try to pacify her, telling she is expecting progress too soon. Patience is not her strong point, which is why working in casualty is best for her. Patch them up, move them on. Now, stuck in the ICU, the minutes tick by painfully slowly and she's so exhausted that her eyes drift closed and she dozes off for short periods, her head leaning on the side of the bed.

 

 

When morning comes, Athos wakes to find Treville next to his bed, with a clean change of clothes for him. Not for the first time in his career, he is grateful for his superior's care and devotion.

"Thought you would be wanting to get out of that bed. And hospital gowns do nothing for your color," Treville smiles at him.

Athos tugs the IV out of his arm and starts getting dressed, while Treville updates him on what happened after he left the scene last night.

"Do you want to tell me how you came by that stab wound?" he asks finally, raising an eyebrow.

From the look on Athos' face, Treville doesn't ask anything else, but nods.

"Did you really think she'd stay away forever?"

"I had hoped she would," Athos replies grimly. "What are we doing with Jack?" Athos changes the subject, running a hand through his messy hair.

"We make him an offer. Would you like to join me?"

"I think I might even enjoy it," Athos smirks.

Treville's phone beeps just as Athos finishes dressing. "Shit!" he shouts. Athos has rarely seen his boss so ruffled. "Gallagher's dead. Someone got him a cyanide pill. You'll have to deal with this, Athos. I have to get back to the office."

 

There are two men stationed outside the hospital room, and Porthos inside, playing on his i-phone. He smiles at Athos when he enters. Jack looks grim, sitting in the bed. He has had far too much time to think about what has happened and his conversation with Constance last night.

Athos doesn't bother with formalities. "Who were you working for?" he asks.

"The woman, I told you," Jack says.

"We know who she is. She doesn’t interest me. Who was above her?"

"I don't know his name. I only met him once," he replies.

"Once is better than nothing. Describe him." And Jack does. An older man, fifties probably, grey hair, but good looking. Thin, wiry. He has a slight accent. And angry eyebrows.

Athos looks at Porthos. "Give me your phone," he tells his friend.

"But I'm winning this game….fine!" he throws it to Athos, who fiddles with it for a few minutes, before pulling up a picture.

"This him?" he asks. Jack nods. Porthos is staring over Athos' shoulder. "Oh shit!" is all he can say.

"Listen Jack, the people behind this, they are not going to let you just walk away."

"I don't know anything," he protests, "all I did was bring an envelope from Moscow!"

"But you've seen their faces. That's enough. You can identify them. We need to make you disappear," Athos is trying to be patient.

"No way!" he shouts, like a petulant child.

"You want to die?" Porthos chimes in. "You stupid or what?"

"I can't just leave everything!" Jack cries.

"That's what happens if you die, you do realize that right?" Porthos asks.

"I want to talk to Constance," he demands.

"Fine. That can be arranged." Athos tells him.

 

Up in the ICU, Athos rouses Constance with a tap to her shoulder. He hands her a Styrofoam cup of tea, steam rolling off it in waves. She cups her hands around it and looks at him gratefully.

"Take a walk with me," he tells her. When she looks worriedly at d'Artagnan, he nods to Aramis, sitting silently in the corner. "Aramis will be here. Come on. You could use the air." Aramis smiles his most charming and reassuring smile, before getting up to take her place by the bed.

Outside the hospital the air is crisp and refreshing. Athos is right, the fresh breeze does her good and, together with the tea, she feels revived.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, looking at his stomach.

"Fine," he replies. "You?"

"I've had better days."

He explains to her about Jack's predicament. "You need to talk to him. He's putting his life in danger. If anyone can stop him from being an idiot, it's you."

"I don't know. I doubt he'll listen to me. He hasn't for years. We wouldn't be in this mess if we'd been able to communicate," she muses.

"At least give it a try," he says.

But she isn't listening. She's looking at someone in the crowd of people milling on the street outside the hospital in the morning rush hour.

"What's wrong? What did you see?" Athos asks, concerned.

"I'm going crazy. I thought I saw someone… but it can't be. This woman. She came round looking for d'Artagnan once. Scared the hell out of me. Beautiful, brown curls, perfect make up…" but Athos is already gone, his tea cup thrown on the floor, he's running into the hospital.

 

 

When she first left, he would imagine that he saw her in all kinds of places: on a tube train, at a restaurant window, standing at a traffic light as he drove by. But now he knows that he isn't seeing things when he spies her dark curls in the same direction that Constance's gaze is fixated on, going into the hospital corridor. It's obvious why she's here and he's damned if he'll let her hurt anyone else. Elbowing people out of the way, hand already on his gun, he approaches her, and she lets out an involuntary gasp as she feels the gun in her back.

"Let's take a walk, darling," he drawls, forcing her to turn around and walk the other way.

"I see you are feeling better," she purrs.

"Yes, your aim was perfect, as always."

"Well, I wouldn't want to do you any real damage, now would I? Where would the fun be in a world without you in it?"

He forces her down a corridor, into a large, airy atrium where he pushes her over to some uncomfortable hospital chairs and makes her sit down next to him, the gun still pressing into her side inconspicuously.

"Nice touch, the doctor's coat. Where's the doctor it belongs to? Dead somewhere?"

"I'm not that ruthless darling. I just took it from a locker."

He uses his free hand to go through the pockets of the white coat, coming up with a few syringes and vials of something. "And the rest. Hand it over," he tells her. She does as she's told, pouting at him.

"Fine! But Gallagher's dead already. And we have other means for dealing with the rest. We never meant for anyone to get out of there alive last night. Not Gallagher, d'Artagnan or Jack. The added advantage was taking down as many of your little friends as possible at the same time."

"Bit of a cock up all round then," he snorts.

She stares at her perfectly manicured nails. "You just can't get the same standard of hired help anymore." It's surreal, he thinks, and so cold. She sounds like she's talking about her maid.

"Give me Richelieu and we'll go easy on you." He offers.

"Never going to happen darling." She raises a hand to his cheek, strokes it seductively. He pushes it away.

"I'll have to take you in anyway," he tells her, "Are you ready for what they'll do to you? Treville won't let me handle this, you know. He'll put his best people on it."

She actually has the decency to look shaken at the thought of interrogation. She knows enough to understand that it won't be pretty.

"You wouldn't, you couldn't." She strokes his cheek again and this time he doesn't push her away immediately. "You still love me, Athos. You know you do. You couldn't let them do that to me. Let me go. I promise I'll stay away this time…" she reaches in to him, so close that he can smell her scent. It hasn't changed. And then their lips are touching, before he jerks away, disgusted at himself.

"Just like I couldn't kill you last night, you can't be the end of me either," she says, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Goodbye darling."

And before he knows it, she's gone, disappeared into the crowd as suddenly as she re-entered his life.

 

Back in the hospital room, Athos hands over the vials to Constance, who looks at him in horror. "I believe those are hospital property," he says, meaningfully. It makes up her mind.

"Jack, you have to go!"

"But I'll never see you again!" he cries.

"You won't see me if you're dead either! Stop being so stupid. You got yourself into this mess. You should be thanking your lucky stars that there's a way out at all."

"Constance…I…I never meant for this to happen. You have to believe me. I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was getting involved in. I just wanted to make things right between us," his tone has changed. Instead of accusing, he's apologizing. "I can't face life without you," he admits.

She moves across to him, takes his hand in hers.

"You think I wanted it to end like this? I don't hate you. You were my first love, and part of me will always love you. And that's why I can't bear the thought of you dead. Please Jack. Do this for me. Don't make me have to mourn you."

"She's good," Porthos whispers to Athos, a little too loudly, gaining him an elbow in the ribs.

Jack chews his lip and thinks for a few moments. Eventually he nods. Constance lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She reaches down and kisses him, chastely on the cheek, embraces him one last time, before turning to leave.

"Jack, take this second chance. You can do something with your life. You can meet someone, love again, have a family. Live. Please, do that, for me."

"Constance!" he calls after her and she looks back at him. "You always deserved better than me. And you have it now. He's a good man, Constance."

"I know," she says, quietly, before making her way back up to the ICU.


	6. In which Athos and Constance share a bed (not like that!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. I will get to my other fic as well as soon as I can. I have to finish both of these so I can get to work on new ideas....  
> Did no one get the Doctor Who reference in the last chapter?  
> As always, I love reviews

The cold wind whips the brown curls around her face as she waits on the park bench. He approaches silently, stealthily, but it doesn't take her by surprise. It never has.

"How much do they know?" he asks.

"I can't be sure," she replies. "I need to get out of England. I only just got away this time. Next time…. I won't be so lucky."

"I want to know how much they know and fast. Do you hear me? Or you won't be getting away. I'll put you in the ground myself." He sneers at her.

"They already made the idiot disappear. And I can't get near d'Artagnan. They have him guarded around the clock. I can't risk running into Athos again."

"Use your imagination. Put a wig on. You've never had trouble with disguises in the past. I don't care. Just find out what they know!" He orders in a tone that brooks no argument.

Hours later, wearing a blonde wig with straight, chin length hair, eyes disguised with contact lenses and feeling naked without any make up on her face, dressed in the clothes of a cleaner, she waits until Athos leaves the hospital before entering. Taking a bucket and mop she makes her way up to the ICU, nodding at doctors and nurses as she goes, but no one pays any attention to her, not even Aramis or Constance, immersed in quiet conversation by d'Artagnan's bedside, as she fixes a microscopic listening device to the IV pole and drops another into a bunch of flowers on the window sill.

 

Aramis knows that both Athos and Constance are stubborn enough to drive themselves into the ground. Which is why, when he sees both flagging after two days at d'Artagnan's bedside, he comes up with a plan.

While Constance has gone to take a shower in the doctors' changing rooms, he speaks to Athos:

"You know, Constance has hasn't had a proper rest in days. Or a good meal," he begins.

"Yes, she really should go home for a while," muses Athos.

"I don't think she can face it. Going home, I mean. With what happened with Jack…" he continues.

"Hmm…" Athos thinks it over but doesn't reply.

"Maybe one of us should take her home, you know…"

 

And later, when Athos is dozing in the corner he approaches Constance.

"I'm worried about him," he says, with a flick of his eyes towards the sleeping figure. "He should really go home and get some proper rest."

"You're right. He won't heal like this," Constance bites her lip, a sure sign she is think about what to do. "Maybe you could take him home?"

"I can't. One of us has to be on duty here at all times…." Aramis replies.

 

And so it is, that in a stumbling conversation, with intervention from Aramis and Porthos, Constance agrees that she will go home and have a proper sleep in one of Athos' many spare rooms, provided the others promise to call her if there is any change.

"And I mean any change, even the slightest," she says, poking Porthos in the chest. He nods at her, "Of course, now off you go," he shoos them out of the room, looking at Aramis, who is rolling his eyes and trying to stifle a laugh.

 

They pick up take away on the drive home and Constance stops at her place to pick up some toiletries and spare clothes, trying to avoid the pictures of Jack on the walls. It's all still too fresh to think about.

She's been to Athos' house a few times before, but never ceases to be amazed by the size of it and the décor. It's minimalist and tasteful and how she would love her home to look, did she not enjoy her home feeling like…well a home. It's stylish and silent and lonely, like its owner's exterior.

After eating and insisting on changing the dressings on Athos' wound, she takes a long shower and then pulls on a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, before sliding into the bed. The mattress is amazingly comfortable, the pillows soft and within minutes she is fast asleep, exhausted by the stress of the past few days.

It's pitch black outside when she is woken by something. At first she gropes blindly for her phone on the bedside table, sure something has happened. When she finds it, and finds no new messages or calls, she thinks maybe she had a nightmare. Until she hears someone crying out and realizes that her host is having a nightmare.

Opening the door, she creeps out into the carpeted hall and along it towards the master bedroom. The door is shut and she listens at it for a few minutes. Hearing nothing, she decides to go back to bed, sure her mind is playing tricks on her. But then she hears him again, screaming wildly this time. She opens the door and enters the room, finding him in the throes of a nightmare.

His arms are flailing and she's scared he'll smack her, but she takes her chances and approaches carefully, reaching for his arms and holding them down, talking to him quietly. And then suddenly he's awake, looking at her and he's ashamed and embarrassed, she can see it in his eyes, so she just sits down next to him and holds him tight to her. Eventually it becomes uncomfortable and she lets go, but stays where she is.

"Sorry for waking you," he says. "This is why I don't often have house guests."

She shrugs her shoulders. "I was worried you'd rip your stitches out."

"All feels fine to me," he tells her.

"Dreaming about her?" she asks.

"Among other delightful topics, yes," he replies, grimly.

She thinks for a minute, before nudging him with her elbow. "Move over," she says.

He looks at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh get your mind out of the gutter, not like that. I'm not going to jump you. I think we've known each other long enough to figure out I don't fancy you. I just can't be bothered to get up only to have to come back again when you start screaming. Now budge over would you. Your bed looks far more comfortable than the crap you keep for guests. Talk about selfish…" she mutters, as he finally moves and lets her climb into the bed next to him.

"This is weird," he muses, half asleep already.

"Nah. I've got three older brothers. For me this is normal," she chuckles. "Now shut up and go to sleep, or I'll slip you a sleeping pill."

"Yes ma'am." is the last thing she hears before his breathing eases and she can tell he's gone to sleep.

When Constance wakes again, sunlight is filtering in through the curtains and the other side of the bed is empty. Her nostrils are accosted by an amazing smell of pancakes and she realizes that she's starving. She is also panicking, not knowing what time it is and having left her phone in the guest bedroom. But just as she is about to fly out of bed, Athos comes into the room, showered and dressed, holding two cups of tea.

"Don't worry, you haven't missed anything. Although according to Aramis the doctors are lowering the sedation and they are hoping he'll wake up later. So drink your tea, get dressed and then come and have some breakfast," he tells her.

Now she can breathe again.

He's heading out the door when he turns to her, as if hit by a sudden realization.

"Constance," he begins, "that woman you saw at the hospital. Where did you say you had seen her before?"

"She came round once, looking for d'Artagnan. Said she was a friend of us, although I don't know where she knows him from. Aside from you guys he knows next to no one in London. Why?"

Athos shakes his head. "That was my wife."

 

 

D'Artagnan comes back to consciousness slowly. His head feels fuzzy, like someone has filled it with cotton wool, and his chest feels like Porthos sat on it, but the touch of someone else's hand on his, caressing the back of it with rhythmic backwards and forwards movements of their thumb anchors him in reality. He concentrates on the touch and pulls himself through the murky depths towards waking.

When he finally blinks his eyes open, Constance is looking at him.

"Hey," she says softly.

He wants to say something, but his throat and lips are so dry that it comes out unintelligible.

"Here, have some water," she tells him, bringing cool liquid to his lips.

He hopes his eyes are expressing thanks, because his mouth doesn't seem to be obliging.

She strokes his hair out of his face with smooth, gentle movements as he looks at her, contemplating. Slowly, surely, it all starts to come back to him, crashing down on him like chunks of ice falling once the sun begins to shine.

"'thos?" he manages to croak out.

"Present and correct," the man in question answers from behind Constance, coming in to his line of sight. "Before you ask, I'm fine. Really. The good doctor here took care of it herself."

D'Artagnan visibly relaxes. He swallows hard before asking another question. "Jack?"

"Safe. He's being looked after. Don't worry," Athos assures him. D'Artagnan can see tears welling up in Constance's eyes. She uses her free hand to swat at them. He tries to bring his other hand up to stroke her cheek but finds it bound up in a tight sling. He looks at her, worried.

"My arm?" he asks.

"It's because of your shoulder," she tells him hoping that will be enough for now.

The doctor comes in to the room and their conversation is interrupted by his checks. When he's finally done, after what seems like ages, he smiles. "You're responding well to the antibiotics. If you keep improving we can move you out of intensive care tomorrow hopefully. Then the visiting times will be less restricted," he gives Constance a meaningful look. Even having two people at a time with a patient in intensive care is pushing her luck and she knows it.

"When can I go home?" D'Artagnan asks.

"Seriously? You just woke up in intensive care and you are asking when you can go home?" Constance cries.

The sedative is still effective enough to allow him to speak freely. "I hate hospitals since my mum died."

"I know," she takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. "I know how hard it is. As soon as I can take you home, I will. But you need an operation on your shoulder and they can't do that until you're strong enough."

He nods slightly. He's getting tired already.

"More pins?" She nods in ascent. "I'm going to have fun at airport security."

"Why? Planning a trip somewhere?" she asks, smiling, eyes twinkling. Athos has faded into the background somewhere, and for a moment it's just the two of them in their own bubble.

"Somewhere hot. Nice beach. You in a bikini," he murmurs, eyes starting to close.

"I'm not much of a beach girl. Prefer treks myself," she says lightly.

"Half the time trekking, half the time beach. Deal? Just wait until my leg is better."

"Deal. Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," she instructs, and he thinks for once that he might just listen to her, "And other people are waiting impatiently to see you."

 

The next time he wakes up it's just Athos in the room with him.

"Good book?" he asks, hating how raspy his voice sounds.

"Pretty awful, but better than the scintillating conversation you offer," Athos comments.

"So go home. I don't need babysitting all the time," d'Artagnan bites back. Truthfully being watched when in this state is starting to get to him. He hates the others seeing him so weak and humiliated.

Athos stares at him. "No. I can't be sure it's safe."

"Why? What aren't you telling me?" d'Artagnan asks.

Athos shakes his head and d'Artagnan understands the sign. There are things that can't be spoken about here, when they don't know who is listening. Athos mouths one word, which shocks d'Artagnan to the core, but Athos is already moving the conversation along, just in case anyone is eavesdropping.

"As a matter of fact, it's about time we talked about my wife."

 

She swears she is going to be sick if she hears much more of the lovey-duvy touchy-feely crap going on in the hospital room. But then things start to get interesting. She notices the miniscule silences in the conversation which indicate information that her husband is transferring information with a look or by some other means. He did it with her enough times. They know more than they will let on in a public space. Just how much, she can't be sure.

And then, she hears Athos talking about her, listens to the sounds of d'Artagnan vomiting profusely, apologizing at even greater length, and she thinks there are even some tears in there somewhere. What does shock her is Athos' reaction to finding out that she slept with one of his best friends (albeit before he and d'Artagnan even met). She had expected anger, jealousy, maybe a fist fight. But she discovers that his bond with this friend seems unbreakable. Can it be that he loves him more than her? A flame of jealousy is ignited in her breast. She'll do what Richelieu wants, and she'll go one better. D'Artagnan needs to die.

 

"Constance will hate me," d'Artagnan says miserably. "She already does. She must. She'll never see Jack again because of me and now this. I just wish I'd never met any of you."

"Oh stop the self indulgence. Why would you think such a thing?" Athos asks impatiently.

"She was crying when you told me about Jack! I saw it!" d'Artagnan exclaims.

"You bloody idiot!" calls out a voice from the door. She's overheard everything then. Good, Athos thinks, we won't have to say it all again. "I was crying because I was so relieved that you woke up, you damn fool, and because I know what you did to save his life." She storms over to the side of the bed, an angry fury.

"And as for his bint of a wife, I couldn't care less what you did in a moment of crazy grief before you met me. But if she comes near you again, I'll damn well kill her," Constance declares.

"Besides, you might be mad at me when you find out I've been sharing a bed with Athos over the last few days," she adds quietly.

D'Artagnan's looks of wonder turns to one of shock and then amazement, before he bursts out laughing, which unfortunately turns into a horrible coughing fit. But the tension is broken and he thinks, through the pain in his chest, that everything is going to be just fine.

 

"I come bearing gifts!" Aramis declares with typical flourish, pointing to the large hold all he is carrying.

He dumps it at the edge of the bed and starts unpacking. "Pyjamas, snacks and, uh huh, here it is!"

"Is that my laptop?" asks Athos.

"I knew you wouldn't mind. Don't worry, I haven't touched your porn collection. I've brought my Joss Whedon DVDs…" Aramis grins evilly.

D'Artagnan is sure smoke is coming out of Athos' ears. "I don't have a porn collection!" he objects.

"Sure you do. What else do you call Game of Thrones?" Aramis winks at d'Artagnan, who can't help but smile at the return of the easy banter.

Athos shakes his head. "I have to go into work. I'll leave you with these two crazy people," Athos nods to Constance and Aramis.

"Here, nice yellow jelly. Yum yum!" Constance exclaims, investigating the hospital food he's been brought.

"I think I'll pass," he mutters.

"Oh no you don't. You need to eat," she says, dipping the spoon in and moving it towards his mouth like she would for a baby.

"I can feed myself you know," he protests.

"Uh huh? Ever tried eating jelly out of a tub one handed? Let's see!"

After attempts which end up with yellow jelly everywhere and Aramis laughing in the background he gives in and lets her feed him.

"Finish this all up and I'll sneak something better in tomorrow," Constance tries to bribe him.

"Yes mum," he replies through a mouthful of awful tasting jelly, trying to make himself swallow.

"I'm going back to work tomorrow," she tells him later. "I'll come in before my shift starts. And on my breaks."

"It's fine. I'm a big boy. And I have enough Joss Whedon DVDs to keep me going forever. Especially as I tend to fall asleep after 20 minutes." She laughs at that.

"And my wonderful company," Aramis reminds them, "we're going to have fun. Now Buffy or Firefly to start?"

"Pah!" d'Artagnan snorts, "Great company I am right now. More like you enjoy seeing my utter humiliation!"

"Hey! It's nothing I haven't seen before. But I think I've got enough material for years of blackmail on this baby," Aramis waves his phone in the air.

Constance rolls her eyes.

"I think I'll leave you guys to fight it out alone. I'll see you in the morning," she says, kissing d'Artagnan on the lips. It turns passionate and Aramis whistles. "Oy get a room!" he shouts.

Breaking apart d'Artagnan scowls at him. "This is my room," he deadpans.

"Oh. Right." Aramis looks suitably abashed. "Well, umm, carry on then," he mutters, looking at his phone. Constance bursts into peals of laughter.

"Goodnight boys. Be good! And don't stay up too late watching TV now…." She calls as she leaves.

"She's a good woman, that one," Aramis comments.

"Don't I know it," d'Artagnan muses, contemplating the empty jelly cup in front of him. "But I can't believe she made me eat that crap." He's quiet for a few minutes before continuing. "I just want to get out of here already. I hate this place."

"We've all been through this. It sucks. But it'll soon be a bad memory," Aramis tries to pacify him, moving closer to the bed. "How about I tell Porthos to bring in that Settlers game tomorrow?"

"But he just cheats and monopolizes all the sheep!"

"Maybe he'll make an exception, being as you're so ill and all. Now get on with it and choose a DVD to watch."

 

 

It hasn't been hard to acquire the drugs she wants. She's worked a little more on her disguise, and thinks it passable, as long as she makes sure Athos isn't around. He'd know her anywhere. So the next evening, she waits in the shadows for him to leave before putting her plan into action.

It's so easy to slip something into Porthos' coffee and make him fall asleep. It's ridiculously simple to add the drugs to the sandwich that she pretends Constance has so thoughtfully sent for d'Artagnan. Then all she has to do is wait patiently and make her move.

By the time she slips into the room, Porthos is snoring, head thrown back against the wall. He won't remember anything in the morning. She can see that d'Artagnan is asleep but agitated. Good, it's working.

A quick injection of stimulant is all it takes and he's waking up, his pupils too wide, looking around in fear. When he sees her he panics.

"No," she whispers, "don't panic my love. So beautiful," she says, stroking his cheek with her middle finger, "such a shame."

He's wriggling now, trying to get away, so she grips him tight, holding him down, and he doesn't have the strength to fight back.

"Tell me, my dear, who do I work for?" she asks, sweetly.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. His vision is blurry and the whole world is moving. Her face is mutating and changing horribly and he recoils in disgust.

"Come now, surely you know, don't you?" she cajoles. "Or didn't Athos tell you?"

He nods now. Athos. Yes, he knows that name. And he remembers something, a word mouthed without sound. "Richelieu," he breathes.

"Good, well done, that wasn't so hard now, was it? Here's another question for you. Where is Jack?"

He can't remember who Jack is. His eyes drift off into the distance, and she slaps him, bringing him back to reality.

"Where is he? Where did they take him?" she demands now, pulling him up towards her. She needs to get going, to make sure she's finished before anyone walks in on her.

"Don---don't know," he stammers.

She throws him back against the bed and he doesn't even register the pain in his shoulder.

"Damn!" she swears, and she knows he's telling the truth.

Jack is the only evidence they have. Without him they know nothing. She has to find him. To do that, she'll have to get Athos.

But for now, she concentrates on the job at hand. She pulls an empty syringe from her pocket. An air bubble to the vein; so easy, so convenient, so quick.

 

 

Constance nods to the nurse at the station.

"That was nice of you, sending up a sandwich earlier. He really appreciated it," the nurse calls.

"What? I didn't…shit!" and she's running down the corridor, the nurse hot on her heels, bursting into the room just in time to see a woman leaning over d'Artagnan, syringe in hand, Porthos dead to the world (and she hopes not really dead) in the corner.

"Get away from him!" she screams, grabbing at the woman and pulling her back. They struggle and fall down to the floor, and before she knows it the other woman has her from behind, syringe at the vein in her neck.

"We are going to walk out of here, slowly and calmly, ok? You, get back!" she barks at the nurse, who does as she's ordered. They start to move, slowly, carefully.

If it weren't so awful, Constance would think it's a miracle, that at exactly the right moment he starts to seize, a terrible grand mal seizure, which sends objects flying and makes enough noise to wake the dead. Her attacker is temporarily startled and Constance uses the opportunity to bring her leg up and kick backwards, sending her reeling back. Part of her wants to grab onto the woman and hold her down, punch her, demand to know what she's given him and then kill her, but the doctor in her just let's her go as she rushes to his side, catching flailing limbs and screaming for help.


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out how Constance met Athos

"Shouldn't he have woken up by now?"

Constance shakes her head at Aramis. He's asked that every fifteen minutes or so all through the night and into the morning.

"Patience isn't his strong point," mutters Athos from the corner of the room.

"I've told you, the amount of sedatives in his blood stream, he'll be out for hours yet. It's a good thing it was Porthos who got it. If you'd got a dose like that you would be dead," she tells Aramis.

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult," he remarks.

"A medical fact. You weigh less," she declares.

"And him?" he asks her, inclining his head towards d'Artagnan.

"No idea. Whenever he's ready," she says softly. "His body had a massive trauma. The longer he sleeps the better. Hopefully by the time he wakes up most of it'll be out of his system. We just have to hope there's no lasting damage."

It's been a really long night and Constance is exhausted. She is also sporting a black eye from her encounter last night. By the time Athos and Aramis arrived at the hospital there was no sign of Ann, d'Artagnan had been taken away for checks and Porthos transferred to a bed to sleep off the drugs he'd been given. The blood tests showed that he had been given a massive dose of sedatives, while d'Artagnan had overdosed on the hallucinogen PCP. The three of them can do nothing but sit around and watch the two sleeping forms, waiting for something to happen.

 

 

Treville is standing in the middle of Tower Bridge at dawn, the Tower looming in the distance. He contemplates the building, thinking it an appropriate setting for this meeting. A few centuries ago he would have sent Richelieu to the Tower and been done with it. Today he needs proof to make the charges stick.

"What do you want, Treville?" asks Richelieu, approaching him from behind.

Treville turns so that the Tower is behind him and faces his enemy.

"Call off your lapdog," he orders.

"Or what?" the other man inquires, quirking an eyebrow.

Treville crosses his arms, taking a defensive stance. "Jack is safe. No one knows where he is but myself and a few people with high clearance. In the event that anything happens to me or one of my men, however, all that will change and the information will become public. Now call her off."

Richelieu swallows. "Fine. I concede this game. But not the match. This is not over, Treville." And with that he turns on his heel and leaves.

 

 

"Come on, try and open your eyes for me," Constance encourages, another doctor watching from the side of the bed.

D'Artagnan opens his eyes but immediately closes them again, grimacing in pain, uttering something unintelligible.

"It's too bright, turn the lights down," Constance instructs Athos. "There, try again now."

He opens his eyes again slowly, and this time they stay open, although unfocused.

"How are you feeling," asks the doctor, shining a light into d'Artagnan's eyes.

"Uggh…hmmph…." He mutters in response.

"I think that means not so great," suggests Aramis.

D'Artagnan mumbles something else. He really wants to tell them that his head is pounding and every single bit of him hurts, but the words won't seem to come out right. He can't even seem to move his hand enough to point to his head.

"His head hurts," Constance translates and d'Artagnan is unaccountably grateful for his understanding.

"Ugh," complains d'Artagnan.

"And he wants us all to shut up, a wish with which I completely concur," adds Athos grimly.

"Just rest," Constance tells him, "we'll be quiet."

 

"Here, rinse your mouth with this," Constance says, holding a cup of water to his lips. Once he has drunk he curls up on his side as much as his shoulder will allow while Constance goes to wash out the bed pan into which he just vomited for the tenth time. When she returns she strokes his head.

"Why would anyone take this for fun?" he asks miserably.

"To be fair, anyone using it for recreational purposes wouldn't take such a high dosage," she counters.

"Not helpful…. Oh no, I need to throw up again, shit!" he cries, and she's back at his side, holding up and rubbing circles on his back.

"I'm sorry about your top," he apologizes, when he's finished. "Maybe you should go. You don't need me throwing up all over you."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't want that cute nurse that's been making eyes at you rubbing your back," she tells him, smiling. "Besides, I've been thrown up on a zillion times before."

"I know that, but not by me. I hate you seeing me like this."

"What, you think I won't love you anymore? You are so silly. Part of loving someone is caring for them when they are ill," Constance shakes her head in despair. Months later he'll understand this, when he holds her hair out of her face as she throws up into the toilet, pregnant with his child. But right now he can't quite grasp it.

"How are the patients?" asks Athos, popping his head around the door.

"Oh no, not you too," d'Artagnan sinks back into the pillows and then regrets the sudden movement, which makes his head spin. "Go away," he groans.

"Somewhat grumpy I see. Porthos?" Athos asks.

"Still snoring, which is not helping with my headache," d'Artagnan grinds out.

"You know what, I've seen him in much worse states than this," Constance says, pointing at Athos, "and I still hang out with him. He threw up all over me once as well."

"Ooh, that sounds like a story I want to hear!" comments Aramis, arriving just in time to hear the last part of Constance's comment.

D'Artagnan looks at her quizzically.

"Maybe a bit of story hour would help pass the time," she suggests. "Give you something else to think about?"

"No!" Athos protests. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

"With all the rules you made me break, that doesn't even count! Besides, the time you threw up on me I was being a friend, not a doctor."

"Fine. Well I'm staying here to make sure she gets the facts right at least!" he declares, sitting himself down and crossing his arms in preparation for the onslaught. Aramis smirks and draws up a chair.

"Well…" Constance begins

 

_Constance pulled back the curtain behind which her next patient was waiting. He was lying there, eyes closed and fists clenched, a bandage covered in blood around his right bicep._

_"Hi!" she called brightly, "I'm Dr. Bonaceiux. Let's take a look at that arm shall we?"_

_"You look too young to be a doctor," he said, opening one eye._

_"Want to see my qualifications?" she asked._

_"I'll take what I can get," he replied, closing his eyes again._

_"Thanks for the vote of confidence. You must be really successful with the ladies," she retorted._

_"Hmmph," is all the reaction she received._

_"So, what happened?" she asks._

_"I got stabbed," he deadpans._

_"Really? And here was I thinking a crocodile bit you. Silly me," she replies. "Fine. Have it your way. Just trying to care." She holds up her hands._

_"I got careless," he said, looking down._

_After stitching him up, giving him a tetanus jab and a prescription for antibiotics, Constance was ready to release him._

_"You know, I really have to report this to the authorities, as a knife wound that is."_

_"Would it help if I said I am the authorities?" he asked._

_"Really?" she looked wholly unconvinced._

_"I can give you a number to call. If you want…" he offered._

_"Fine, whatever. Make an appointment with a nurse to get the stitches out in ten days." She said, turning to leave._

_"Thanks," he muttered quietly as he left._

"Okay, so he was rude and grumpy, what's new?" d'Artagnan asks.

"Wait, we're getting there," she tells him.

 

_The second time Constance saw Athos he sought her out. It was ten days later and he needed the stitches removed. She saw him in the waiting room as she entered the department to begin her shift._

_"You again?" she asked him._

_"I need the stitches out," he explained._

_"Any nurse can do that," she told him. "Make an appointment."_

_"Could you?" he requested, and she could see that he wasn't a man used to asking for favors, or who enjoyed doing so._

_"Now you trust me huh?" she asked jokingly, smiling. "Come on then, let's get this over and done with."_

 

"Why did you go back to her?" d'Artagnan asks, lying back after vomiting again.

"I liked her. She was funny. And she has a gentle touch," Athos shrugs his shoulders.

"Ah, and you say you don't love me!" she chuckles.

 

_When she'd finished, Constance gave him her phone number. "Next time just call me instead of waiting for my shift to start," she told him._

_"Your husband might mind," he said, looking meaningfully at her wedding ring. She got the message._

_"He's used to me working crazy hours. Don't worry about it. And that wasn't an invitation to have sex with me, just so you know. You're totally not my type. You just seem…well, sad. If you ever need a friend…."_

 

"Is this story going anywhere? I'm getting tired," d'Artagnan whines.

"Shut up and listen!" Constance commands.

 

_Constance had finished her kickboxing class and was feeling energized and happy, looking forward to a long bath and then bed. As she left the gym, however, a figure emerged from the shadows, peeling itself away from the wall. Startled, she used her moves to kick and punch the man, bringing him gasping to the ground._

_"Athos?" she asked._

_"Hmmph," was all she got in return as the man in question tried to catch his breath._

_"I'm sorry," she said, dropping to her knees. "You scared me. Bad idea to surprise a woman after an hour of kickboxing!"_

_She helped him up and then noticed a bleeding gash on his forehead._

_"I didn't do that! What happened?"_

_"I got careless again," he shrugged. "I was hoping…maybe you could help."_

_"How did you find me?" she asked._

_"You gave me your number, remember?" he answered._

_"Yes…so you could call me, not stalk me in the shadows!"_

_"You didn't answer, so I asked a friend to locate your phone. Sorry…."_

_"Invasion of privacy much?" she shook her head in despair. "Come on then. Come home with me and I'll fix you up. And no, that is not an invitation to my bed."_

 

"Wow, freaky stalker Athos. A side of him I never knew existed," Aramis mutters.

"Careless Athos… that's even weirder," remarks d'Artagnan.

"I had just discovered that my wife was a Russian spy and killed my brother. I apologize for not being at the top of my game," grumbles the man in question.

 

_Constance was watching TV on the living room sofa and eating chocolate when the phone rang. Slightly miffed at being interrupted in the middle of Doctor Who, she almost didn't answer, but when she saw a number she didn't recognize flashing on the screen she decided she had better pick up._

_"Is that Constance?" a man's voice asked._

_"Yes. Who is this?" she replied warily._

_"I'm the landlord of the King Louis pub. I've got a guy in here has had one too many and he said to call this number off his phone. Could you come and get him?"_

_"Umm…" she considered, "what's his name?"_

_"How the hell should I know. And I don't much care either. He was starting a fight until I intervened and now I want him gone," the man told her gruffly._

_"Well then what does he look like?" she really figured she should find out if this is someone she knows before dragging herself off the sofa._

_"A guy? Hell, I don't know. Blue eyes, unshaven…." He trailed off, but it's enough for her._

_Constance silently complains about the male sex's lack of observance._

_"Fine, I'm on my way."_

_"Come on then," she said, dragging Athos into her living room and depositing him on the sofa. "I'm going to get you some water to drink. I really don't want to have to take you to the hospital to get your stomach pumped. It's not pretty."_

_When she got back from the kitchen Athos was asleep on her sofa, sprawled out and snoring._

_"Up! Drink!" she commanded him._

_"You are such a spoil sport," he complained._

_"No, you spoiled my evening of good TV. Why the hell did you give the landlord my phone number?" she asked angrily._

_"Got no one else," he slurred, although not unhappily. He was drunk enough not to feel any pain. He downed the water in one go._

_"Athos this has to stop. You keep putting yourself in dangerous situations, getting into fights and drinking yourself to the verge of alcohol poisoning. You need help," she tells him._

_"Actually, I think right now I need a bucket," he said, before throwing up all over her._

 

Laughter from the other bed causes all of them to look away from Constance and over at Porthos.

"How long have you been awake?" Athos asks grumpily.

"Long enough!" Porthos chortles. "Got a killer headache though."

"Trust me, mine's worse. I got hallucinations too. I win," d'Artagnan counters.

"And a seizure. He definitely wins," Aramis nods. "Glad you're up though. I was starting to get worried." He adds, going to his friend and slapping him on the back.

"Anyone went to tell me what happened?" Porthos enquires.

"Athos' bloody wife, that's what," remarks Aramis grimly.

"Oh…right," Porthos nods at them all.

"I'm sorry. This is all my fault. If I had been man enough to bring her in or kill her, none of this would have happened. I promise you, the next time I see her, this ends," Athos buries his head in his hands.

"You're not weak, Athos, you're human," d'Artagnan tells him.

"And you'd all do well to remember that sometimes. Running around like you're superman or something," Constance mutters, reaching over to pat Athos on the shoulder.

"So what happened then? Please tell me he paid the bill to have your carpet and sofa cleaned," Aramis asks, changing the subject.

"Yes, he did, like a perfect gentleman. And he sent me flowers. And chocolates. It was all rather over board," she says, smiling.

"I'll remember that. No need to buy gifts," d'Artagnan remarks, smirking.

She smacks him on the arm. "Don't you bloody dare!"

"And after that?" Porthos asks. "Did you see him again?"

"Not for a while, he was pretty embarrassed, so he stayed away. And then I saw him less and less. I hoped maybe he'd listened to my advice and got help. But in hindsight, I just think he met you two prats."

"Hey! That's proof that we keep him out of trouble at least!" Aramis says smugly.

"Or that your field medic course made me redundant," she sniffs in response.

"Well if that was the case, accept my apologies madam," he says, looking contrite. "And have no fear, you will never be redundant again now that you have d'Artagnan to look after!"

"Oy!" his friend shouts out, mock offended.

"I'm starving. Did I miss breakfast?" asks Porthos, suddenly.

"Try breakfast, lunch and tea. I'll get you something," Aramis offers.

"No! Please don't talk about food…." Cries out d'Artagnan, although it's a little too late….

 

 

 


	8. In which d'Artagnan gets a shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work and family are both crazy. Don't give up on me. I'm still writing. Honest. Thank you to all my readers and for the lovely reviews. They make me soooo happy.

Constance spends the next few days running up and down the five flights of stairs between the Accident and Emergency Department and d'Artagnan. She always takes the stairs, figuring it balances out the amount of chocolate and coffee she is consuming.

She sees how frustrated and fed up he has become, despite his best efforts to hide it. Which is another reason for her to run up there at every opportunity, hoping to at least divert his attention and stop him dwelling on the situation. So she's relieved when the doctors declare him fit enough for the operation on his shoulder.

She doesn't bother knocking on the door before entering the room after finishing her shift, carrying drinks and pastries. She is a little surprised to find Treville in the room.

"Oh, sorry. Should I come back later?" she stammers.

"No not at all. I just came to wish d'Artagnan the best of luck for tomorrow. But I do have some news that concerns you as well," he answers.

"Oh, really?" she's a little confused at this, although his expression is open and warm.

"Yes. We finished the vetting process on you and you will be happy to hear that your relationship is perfectly acceptable," Treville states.

"Right. Good. The queen approves does she?" Constance chuckles. D'Artagnan looks embarrassed. His cheeks flush bright red.

"Sorry if I was being presumptuous…" he begins.

"It's a procedural matter," Treville cuts him off. "Although in your case we should have had you vetted years ago, according to the tales I hear about Athos. Anyway. I'd better be off. Although those pastries do smell good. Is there one going spare?" he says, putting on his jacket.

Constance grins and offers him the bag and he gladly accepts, before nodding again and walking out, chocolate croissant in hand.

"So," says Constance, sitting down and passing a cup of hot chocolate to d'Artagnan. "We're official are we?"

"Ermm… yeah?" he looks at her questioningly.

"Stop being an idiot. It's fine. I guess they overlooked that one time I got arrested then…" she grins.

"You? Arrested? No way!" d'Artagnan exclaims.

"Student protest. It really wasn't that exciting. Sorry to disappoint you. Now, chocolate or cinnamon pastry?"

"I'm not all that hungry. But thanks," he replies, looking at the steaming cup in his hand.

"You can fast all you want tomorrow," she jokes. But then, seeing his expression she reaches over and takes his hand. "It's okay to be nervous you know. Operations are a big deal. I can get the nurse to give you something to help you relax."

"No!" he cries. "No more drugs!"

"Oh it's not the same. Stop being such a martyr. No one will think any less of you if you actually tell us when you are in pain or need help. In fact, it might make our lives a little easier," she sighs.

 

The next day, Constance gets her wish. The after effects of the anesthetic make d'Artagnan loopy and he will gladly tell her anything she wants (or even doesn't) to know. He waxes lyrical about the color of her eyes and her hair. Constance seriously considers asking him some naughty and revealing questions, but eventually decides that it would be unfair and instead steers the conversation towards his poetic commentary on how beautiful she is.

Leaving the recovery area she bumps into Athos.

"How did it go?" he asks.

"Very well, according to the doctor. Although it will take a lot of work for him to regain full use of his arm, he should eventually."

Athos nods.

"I think you'd better not come back until this evening though. He's totally loopy right now and probably wouldn't appreciate you seeing him like this," she tells his friend.

He raises one eyebrow in response. "That sounds like something I don't want to miss out on."

"Well, if you want to listen to him going on about the brightness of your eyes and fullness of your lips then be my guest, although don't say I didn't warn you…."

 

"Is something wrong?" Constance asks the nurse at the station.

"I'm sorry to drag you up here, but he's refusing the pain medication. Maybe you can talk some sense in to him," the nurse shrugs her shoulders.

Constance takes a deep breath before walking into her boyfriend's room. He's playing on the laptop one handed, but she can see that he's not really paying attention. His pallor and the creases around his eyes show how much pain he's in. Her anger dissipates a little.

"Hey," she says, sitting down on the bed next to him.

"Hi," he replies tightly. "How come you're here? Aren't you on duty?"

"Slow day. Only three head injuries, one drunk and a broken wrist so far. I can spare a few minutes."

He nods at her but remains silent. She can see beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Want to tell me why you're refusing the painkillers?"

"It makes me throw up," he informs her.

"And pain doesn't? For heaven's sake! You had a major operation yesterday and are clearly in a lot of pain. I'll get you an anti-emetic for the nausea."

He doesn't quite meet her gaze.

"What else? Come on…"

"Fine!" he exclaims, exasperated. "I want to get out of here and if I'm still dependent on pain medication through the IV I can't go home. You said after the operation I could go home but the doctors keep finding more reasons to keep me here and…" He breaks off, feeling like a petulant child and hating himself for it.

She shakes her head in despair and puts her finger under his chin, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me. I know how much you want to get out of here, okay? But right now you still need IV antibiotics and painkillers. And to learn how to get to the bathroom on your own. Give it a few more days and we'll spring you. I'll take time off to look after you at home. Just please, let yourself heal properly," she pleads.

"I don't want to be a burden, to make you take time off…"

"Oh please. I have so much holiday time stocked up. It's just…" she doesn't quite know how to finish her sentence. She takes a long breath before going on, "I don't know where home is anymore. I hate that house now. Everything reminds me of…"

"Jack?" he asks, looking down.

"Yes but not the way you think. Of how he betrayed me, of what happened to you because of him. It was all his fault! And everywhere I look, I see him! That's why I've been sleeping at Athos' place." Tears are rolling down her cheeks, the first time he's seen her break down in all of this.

His mouth rounds into a surprised oh. Not what he was expecting. He wipes away the tears.

"Constance, home is wherever we are together," he tells her finally. "Except this hospital!" he adds, seeing her about to answer him back that they're together here and now, in this room.

She nods, mutely, an idea starting to form in her head.

"Okay. Will you let me get you something for the pain?" He nods slightly. Constance pops her head out of the door and calls to the nurse, who comes in soon after to give him the injection. She sees the effect it takes soon after as his face relaxes.

"Can you shift over a bit?" she asks and he does so, slowly and gently. She kicks off her trainers and climbs onto the bed next to him carefully, resting her head on his good shoulder and taking his hand in hers, trailing her thumb over the back of it with soothing movements.

"I can stay for a while. I think the A&E can manage a bit longer without me. And maybe later we'll see about getting a wheelchair and going for a little stroll. How about that?" she asks.

"I like that idea," he says, turning his head to kiss her.

 

"Hey! Look who is out of bed!" Porthos exclaims in delight arriving to visit d'Artagnan the next day.

"Yeah! Go me. I made it all the way to the chair!" the younger man quips sarcastically, looking up from the book he is reading.

"One small step and all that crap. I brought chips!" Porthos tries to cheer him up and succeeds in eliciting a small smile.

"From the kebab van? With melted cheese on top? And ketchup?"

"Yes, yes. Just the freaky way you like them."

"Don't mock me, I'm an invalid!" d'Artagnan pouts, putting down his book and holding out his hand for the chips.

Porthos sits down on the spare chair and takes out the food. D'Artagnan smiles widely after his first mouthful.

"This is the best meal I've had in ages!" he declares.

"Are you telling me Constance hasn't been spoiling you rotten?" Porthos asks doubtfully.

"No, but she doesn't know about Hassan's Kebab Van, and probably wouldn't approve," d'Artagnan replies.

"What wouldn't I approve of?" comes a voice from the doorway. The two men look up to see Constance standing there, dressed in her scrubs.

"Hah! Caught in the act!" chimes in Aramis from over her shoulder. "I can't believe you didn't buy any for me!"

Constance crosses over and steals one of d'Artagnan's chips. He swats at her hand. "Oy! These are mine!"

"Don't you love me?" she pouts.

"Bah! Fine. I'll share. Just this once."

"Don't ever doubt my love of kebab vans, O ye of little faith!" she smirks, as Aramis launches into Porthos' helping.

"Good, that'll save money on dates!" d'Artagnan remarks.

"It looks like I'm missing a party. What are we celebrating?" asks Athos as he enters a few minutes later. "And where are my chips?"

 

Constance takes the next day off work and asks all the guys to do the same, certain the country will survive for one day without them. With one more day until d'Artagnan is coming home, she figures it's time to move back home and take control.

The house is musty from lack of use. There are still dirty dishes in the sink from before that fateful night, and Jack's stuff is still lying all over the place.

"Right troops, this is what is going to happen. Aramis is responsible for boxing up all of Jack's stuff for storage. The boxes and masking tape are upstairs waiting. Athos and Porthos, you are going to move furniture around, starting with making the downstairs guest room into my bedroom. I will start cleaning. When all that's done, we can move d'Artagnan's stuff up here. Clear?"

"She's kinda scary when she's on a mission," Porthos whispers.

"I heard that!" Constance calls out, pulling on rubber gloves before tackling the interesting science experiments in her sink.

"She's good to have around in a crisis. Just remember that," Athos mutters, stomping noisily up the stairs.

They break at lunch for beer and sandwiches and then work through into the evening. By the time night is drawing in, they are all exhausted, but Constance is beaming.

"The place looks completely different! You guys are amazing. Thank you," she gushes.

"Can we go home now please miss?" asks Aramis balefully.

"No!" she calls out.

"Oh heck. What now?" he groans.

"I thought I should buy you all a drink," she says, pulling on her coat. "Come on!"

 

He feels pathetic about how tired he is just from the drive home from the hospital and making it in the door, but stops in his tracks at the entrance to the living room.

"What did you do?" he asks in amazement.

"Just a bit of reorganization. We didn't have time to re-wallpaper like she wanted though," Athos comments from behind him.

"Maybe if I'd stopped you slacking off so much you would have!" Constance harrumphs, guiding d'Artagnan over to the sofa and helping him sit down gently. His arm is closely bound up to his chest so that he won't move his shoulder, but it still seems to hurt with every movement and he can't hide that from Constance's prying doctor eyes.

"It's amazing, thanks. And thanks for bringing me home."

"Oh, I'm just here to get my laptop back," Athos tells him, although d'Artagnan can see it isn't really true from the slight smile playing on his lips. "Next time Aramis decides to give you a gift he can use his own stuff!"

"Cup of tea?" Constance asks. "I'm going to put the kettle on."

"No, I think I'll leave you to it. I've got paperwork to file," Athos calls after her as she makes for the kitchen. "But maybe we'll all come round for dinner tomorrow? If you're feeling up to it?" The older man asks, before patting d'Artagnan on the good shoulder and turning to leave.

D'Artagnan catches a glimmer of emotion in Athos' eyes. He realizes that maybe Athos is wary of going back to an empty house. Constance has told him about the nightmares his friend has. He hates the idea of him being lonely and he knows that Athos is far too proud to ask for help, unless very, very drunk.

"Come tonight. We can order takeaway," he tells him.

"That would be great. Thanks," Athos turns to him and smiles.

When Constance emerges with two steaming cups of tea a few minutes later d'Artagnan is fast asleep on the sofa.

 

 

"You know," says Constance as d'Artagnan hobbles out of the bedroom to the kitchen a few days later, crutch under his good arm, hair messy from sleep, "you were worried about being a burden, but all you seem to do is sleep. Look how much I got done while you were out of it?" She gestures to the cupcakes on the counter top.

"Yeah, sorry about that. They smell amazing," he smiles apologetically, reaching for a cake. She smacks his hand away.

"It's fine. It's what you need to do to heal. And I am really enjoying myself. Now put that back. I'm going to ice them and make them all pretty before you and your mates guzzle them all up!"

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"What? I don't remember the last time I had so much time to do whatever I want. I think I am going to try and make a cheesecake next," she continues, flipping through the recipe book, "what do you think? Or maybe cheese brownies?"

D'Artagnan just smiles. It's true that he can't remember seeing so relaxed. And he is also enjoying the time they are spending together, when he isn't sleeping, just being with her, learning everything he wants to know about this woman. They've drawn closer and the intimacy between them has reached a level he never dreamed of, even if they're not making love at the moment.

His thoughts are interrupted by a rattling noise coming from the front door. Constance freezes.

"Expecting anyone?" he asks.

"No. And it's too early for the boys," she sounds concerned. He knows that she still doesn't feel completely safe, it's going to take time for her to be secure again, the nightmares tell him that.

The noise turns into a banging. And then a voice shouts out. "Constance? Are you home? My key won't work. Did you change the locks darling?"

Constance's face drops. "Oh hell! My mother!"

"Your what?"

"Mother. You know, the woman who gave birth to me. What's the date today?"

"March 23rd I think," he replies.

"Oh heavens. I'd better open the door. Um…well…" she dusts herself down, smoothes her hair into place as best she can before running to open the front door.

D'Artagnan, not completely sure what to do in this situation, decides to hide in the kitchen until further notice and risk Constance's wrath by eating one of the cupcakes. He listens to the conversation from the living room.

"Did you forget I was coming darling? You know I'm going to the theatre tomorrow night with Mandy and Dennis and you said I could stay for a few days. I never see you anymore. Oh! You've changed the living room around, I like it. Should I put my bag in the guest room down here?"

"Um, no actually. You'll be upstairs this time. I've made some other changes. My room's downstairs now," Constance replies.

"Oh, really? And where's Jack? At work I presume. He works so hard that man, too hard. You should make sure he rests more."

"Mother, Jack and I, well, we separated. He's gone," Constance blurts it out.

"What? After all these years? How could you let him go?"

"Oh of course this is my fault, right? Because I wasn't happy, or doesn't that matter to you? Because he slept with other women constantly. And…um….because I met someone new."

D'Artagnan takes this as his cue to emerge from the kitchen. He realizes that he doesn't look his best right now with his baggy tracksuit bottoms and fleecy zip up top, one arm hanging empty. But this will have to do. He takes a deep breath, thinking that if he can face down Russian mobsters, he can take on Constance's mother.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this fic it finally finished. But I will be writing more in this AU. Stay tuned.... As always, please review....

Constance rolls over onto her side on the soft white sheets and stares out of the window. The sky is a perfect blue over the sea. She turns her head to look at d'Artagnan, still sleeping next to her, before deciding it is high time to wake him up. She edges closer towards him and begins drawing circles on his chest. He responds with a slight moan, pulling her close to him, and she takes this as a sign to continue her ministrations. He moves his hand to stroke her side, then slowly inches it downwards until it is between her legs, softly caressing her.

Later, as they lie tangled together and her lover drifts off to sleep, she looks out of the window again. The sun is high in the sky.

This time she is less gentle in her methods. "Oi!. Wake up lazy bones. It must be nearly noon. We didn't come all this way just to lie in bed you know." She pokes him in the ribs for good measure.

D'Artagnan pouts. "We did all the tourist stuff. Now it's time for relaxing. This is called relaxing."

"I thought you wanted me on a beach in a bikini?" she asks.

"I'd rather have you naked in bed."

"Well tough crap. I'm hungry, and I want to walk along the beach. Come on!" And with that she unceremoniously pulls the covers off him and dumps them on the floor.

It's taken them almost six months to make it happen, but Constance thinks the wait has been worth it. They flew to Italy, saw Venice, Rome and Naples and are finishing their holiday on the island of Sicily. Constance tries really hard not to make comparisons, but can't help but thinking about her honeymoon with Jack, which they spent mostly fighting about what to do, about who had read the map wrong and then being ill with food poisoning. This trip has been a lot better, she thinks, smiling.

Sitting outside a restaurant and waiting for their lunch to arrive, a glass of wine in her hand, she can't help but feel that this island is heaven and that she really doesn't want this to end. The day after tomorrow they fly home, back to reality, to work, to her mother's disapproval and to worrying about what mission d'Artagnan will get sent on next.

"Maybe we could stay here forever," she says, wistfully.

"You'd get bored. Who was it that insisted on 'doing stuff'? Huh?" d'Artagnan chuckles.

"I don't know. I could get used to this. We could sell up, move here, have lots of babies. Maybe buy a vineyard and make wine."

"As nice as that sounds, you would miss London and the hospital," he tells her, stroking check with his finger. "We'll have this again. Don't worry," he reassures her.

"And lots of babies?"

"And lots of babies. Although they make holidays slightly less peaceful, or so I am told," he laughs.

They are so absorbed in each other that neither of them notices three men settling down at one of the other tables and ordering beers. They probably wouldn't notice the food arrive, were they not starving from their morning exertion.

"Shall we have that walk along the beach now?" d'Artagnan asks her when they are finished. He hasn't noticed that someone has approached the table and is startled to hear a familiar voice.

"I was wondering when we could finally go to the beach. How long does it take to eat a plate of pasta?"

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asks, spinning around.

"The one and only," says his friend with a bow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Constance asks.

"What, you two get to have all the fun? We can take a holiday too you know," he says, gesturing to Porthos and Athos, sitting at the table. Athos raises a beer in mock salute.

D'Artagnan buries his head in his hands. "Have you not heard of the concept of privacy?"

"Of course not. Do you forget what we do for a living?" Aramis replies with a cheeky grin.

"Well then, I guess you all get to see me in my bikini," says Constance, shrugging her shoulders and pulling her boyfriend up from his seat.

  
Athos watches from afar, hat pulled down low over his face, as Porthos and Aramis splash around in the waves as Constance and d'Artagnan paddle nearby. He is just dropping off to sleep when he feels someone sit down beside him.

"I am guessing this wasn't your idea," d'Artagnan comments.

"No, but I didn't do much to stop them," his friend responds. "Sorry about that."

"Nah. It's sweet how the three of you couldn't live without me. I actually take it as a compliment. Especially knowing how much you hate the beach."

"Oh, I'm not here for you. I'm just here to see Constance in her bikini," Athos deadpans, earning him in an elbow in the ribs.


End file.
